Look at me. Yes, I'm talking to you. Look at my burnt carcass still
emanating with a macabre scent that sends shivers down people's spines. Look at
my eyes-or whatever else is left of them. Do they not speak of the utter guilt
that I harbor towards the Mother Church? Look at my hands and feet; bound to
this stake I fear and revile so. Look at my mouth; wide open in awe at the
realization of my iniquities. As you examine whatever remains of my ashes, you
will discover much about me. In fact, I even wonder why I became a Protestant in
the first place.
I am known to most as a heretic. An enemy of the Church. He who has cast
down his belief in Romanism and embraced the teachings of Martin Luther. Now, I
despise him and his teachings for he has caused me to go against what I was
taught to believe. Or do I? Living in these times of the Inquisition are
anything but easy. I must tell you
that to my dying day, I regret every thing that I have done to bring me to this
gruesome, unspeakable fate.
The moment that they sentenced me to death at the stake for heresy, I
fell to my knees in grief, only then understanding the full extent of my crime.
I have gone against the Holy Mother Church! She who has become the most exalted
on Earth! She who has led me to the blessed Mary, our Mother. She who has
brought me closer to the saints who I pray to for intercession. She who I have
learned to love for her lessons in life! How I wish I could turn back time and
do what I should have done!
How I wish I weren't there by the church at Wittenberg that early morn in
1817. Had I not shown myself there, I would have not even known about all these
"wrong-doings" that Luther was lamenting about. How I wish that I were
more closed-minded to the truth, that perhaps then I would have stayed blind to
what was otherwise a Christianized circus of paganism. Then again, each person
has the right to his own opinions, and on that day at Wittenberg, I was
captivated by what Luther had to say. The man had a charisma about him back then
that seemed so irresistible. Despite that, the fact of the matter is he has led
many of us to our deaths, and hundreds, perhaps thousands, are sure to follow in
the next days to come.
What Luther spoke of seemed to make so much sense back then. He spoke of
the fallibility of the papacy. He spoke of indulgences and idolatry. He spoke of
Mary Worship and paganism. Why, he even spoke of things Catholics would fear to
know about! Even though he was talking about a very sensitive matter, he carried
it with ease. It seemed to everybody that he was a man who will enlighten the
people to find the right church; the true church that will lead all into
salvation. He spoke against the ways of the Catholic church which he believed
were nothing but lies meant to blind people to the truth. He captivated my heart
with the determination to show these Romanists the error of their ways.
That was the day when I decided to renounce my Catholic faith. Muttering
a short but heartfelt prayer, I prayed to God to help me enlighten the people to
the truth. We moved from one town to another all over Germany, preaching about
the truth. We felt a sense of fulfillment in each convert we brought into the
fold. On the other hand, it was a crushing blow to us whenever one of our
members would fall back into Roman Catholicism. I was so young; so idealistic.
It seemed as though I were a human dynamo filled with energy. My zeal and
relentlessness were unparalleled except by Luther himself. The occasional debate
from stalwart Catholics resulted in their utter devastation as I crushed each of
their arguments. Within a span of five years since the first time I saw those
ninety-five theses nailed to the door of the Wittenberg church, I have devoted
myself to preach the truth to all my fellow Germans. I took it upon myself to do
this for I felt that it was my moral duty. After five years in Germany, Luther
took notice of my work. It was then that I started evangelizing the rest of
Europe.
Traveling
all over Europe was no easy task. I started my journey by going to France, where
I managed to convert a good number of people to the Protestant faith. It was
then to my dismay that one ofmy closest colleagues, Antoine LeBlanc, was then
reconverted to Catholicism, following an embarrassing trial that forced him to
recant his teachings. I was dismayed at the loss of a good man, but more so at
his weak faith for forsaking what he believed all too soon. Had he gone on and
continued his work, perhaps he would be remembered as one of the key figures in
the French Protestant Revolution all throughout time. It was sad to see that one
of the leaders of the French Protestants would stoop so low. Needless to say,
many of his followers abandoned the Protestant Church and returned to
Catholicism with open arms. Within a few months' time, it was the best occasion
to move to England.
England
was the setting for my first run-in with the Inquisition. During one of our
secret gatherings, what seemed to be an entire platoon of priests stormed into
our room, arresting all those that they could. It was the first time I saw a
priest in years, and it was anything but a
joyous encounter. In the rush, I was able to go out the rear exit without
their noticing. Up to that point, they could not attach a face to Adolf
Schindler, perhaps one of their most despised adversaries. I was fortunate to
have escaped, but to my dying day, I still bear the guilt of leaving behind
those people. We never saw them again after that incident. Some insiders
reported that they became monks. We knew far better than that.
Since
then we took even more care in our gatherings. Since they only knew me by name
but not by face, I used at least a hundred aliases in the next half-decade, all
playing upon my real name. I can still recall those that seemed so striking to
me: there was Adolf Hitler, and there was Oskar Schindler. I wonder if any of
those names would be used in the future? Nevertheless, even our belongings were
carefully arranged so as not to arouse suspicions.
Despite
all my precautions, I was arrested in
Italy almost fifteen years after my conversion. I may have been careful, but it
was not enough for me to avoid being betrayed by a disgruntled former colleague
whose brother was caught in the French incident. It was foolish of me to realize
that his desire for revenge would cause my undoing. After three days in a dark
cell without food and little water, I was taken to what seemed like a dark room
filled with hooded priests that looked upon me menacingly. I have never been
scared of priests any more than that moment. Only a small lamp lighted the
entire room, as they hovered over me as though they were vultures.
They
asked me to recant, but I never did. I received at least sixty lashes from them,
but I never relented to their demands. I never flinched for even a moment when
they began explaining to me what their reasons for arresting me are. They called
me a heretic, and I even found that to be a compliment, coming from them. I was
certainly miffed that these people claim to be "holy" men, yet they
were acting no better than swine! They condemned Protestantism and Martin Luther
for "leading souls into the gates of Hell". They accused me of going
against the Mother Church, and for dishonoring Christ and Mary. I found that ludicrous
as questions began coursing through my mind.
"What
does Mary have to do with this?" I asked myself.
To
me, it was nothing but a way for these Romanists to actually be able to convert
pagans, playing upon their belief that the mother of God also, by logic, becomes
God. I debated for hours on end with these priests, and they wore me down, but
not my convictions. I believed I was right and they were wrong. I believed that
they had no right to ask for money for indulgences. How dare they put a monetary
price to salvation? Most importantly, I believed that their church was not the
true Church. I saw their church as the "Whore of Babylon" that John
spoke of in Revelations.
They
started using worse punishments to make me recant. With each day I was subjected
to the torture rack, and despite writhing in agony, I never for one moment
thought about recanting. It was a wonder how I survived that diabolical device.
Then they started working on making my fingers useless with what they called
"thumbscrews", another one of their fiendish methods of making a
person capitulate. In spite of all the torture they subjected me to, I never
did.
They
finally gave up on converting me. They instead decided to do away with me once
and for all, to serve as an example to those who would go against the Catholic
church. Not the least bit satisfied with branding me a heretic, they accused me
of witchcraft and produced fabricated evidence to prove their allegations. They
wanted to show that Protestantism is a Satanic religion; one that is the heart
of witchcraft. Lies! All lies! But then, who am I to prove them wrong? The trial
lasted a mere two days, and the verdict was already made apparent from the first
day: death by burning.
It
was only then that regret began filling the depths of my soul. I felt like a
wretch, all of a sudden wishing that
I had recanted. It felt as though all my work fell to naught. Words could never
convey the sorrow that came across me when the sentence was passed down; albeit
I was already anticipating it. In less than a week, I was to be burned to a
stake. There was no chance to be spared from the sentence anymore, for I was
given enough time to recant. Then again, maybe there still was, but I was simply
too filled with pride to take it.
It
was a fine, warm Sunday morning. Perfect for an execution. As the priest recited
the Extreme Unction, I prayed for a miracle. Would some fellow Protestant emerge
from the crowd and rescue me? My
heart sank when the torch lit the
straw and no miracle came. Feelings of extreme
regret flowed through me far more quickly than the flames consumed the straw.
Each second was witness to a growing, rising flame, going up to my feet. I
screamed in agony as the flames ate through my clothes and started singeing my
skin.
I
wanted to recant at that moment, but my shock overwhelmed me. I tried speaking,
but nothing came out. Soon enough, I realized that the ashes I were seeing
already had a part of my body amongst them.
It
was a grisly sight to see my own skin melting as though it were candle wax. The
searing flames that scorched my entire body were nowhere as painful and
humiliating as the jeers from among the crowd as they callously looked on as I
burned to death. Not a single tear was shed for me. By a minute's time, I
couldn't feel a thing anymore. I was fading fast, my consciousness giving way to
my unconsciousness. Finally, I fell to a deep slumber. A deep, permanent
slumber. After another minute, hardly any of me remained whole. I was charred
beyond recognition.
Only
at the very moment of death; only at the consciousness of my unconsciousness did
I realize that whatever I fought for was worth fighting for. Perhaps the church
will mend its ways in due time, but in my time, I must do what I must do. I may
have been idealistic, but I stood for the right ideals. Perhaps my name would
never find its way into history, but I know that for all my faults, I only meant
to find the truth. I never did, but the search for it continues to this day.
May my story inspire those who believe in their faith to continue
believing. You may be Catholic, you may be Protestant; it doesn't matter. What
matters is that you stand up for your faith, and you believe inwhat you know to
be true. We are not saved by what church we belong to, but by God's grace
(Ephesians 2:8-9). To my dying day, I never resented the Catholic church: I
resented her wrong-doings. For no matter what history says, the greatest heresy
is not to your religion, but to your faith. Think about it.
Adolf Schindler,
1785-1832
Note: The author does not necessarily share the same opinion as the preceding narrative.